Shakespeare glanced around him. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You just want to strip me of all my sexuality, that’s what you want.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” said Ellis-Bextor.

Shakespeare pointed at a group of 20-something men kicking a ball about nearby. They were all wearing tight swimming costumes, sunglasses and nothing else. “You want me to wear safe, sexless clothing like that,” said Shakespeare. “I’m standing here in a stunning padded doublet and you hate the fact that women are eyeing me up.”

“Trust me, no-one’s eyeing you up,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“No-one?” asked the bard, rhetorically. “No-one? What about that group of girls over there?”

“They’re boys.”

“Or that smartly dressed young lady over there?”

“That’s Martin Rossiter from Gene.”

Shakespeare squinted at the figure who was partly silhouetted as a result of the late afternoon sun. “Oh yeah, you’re right. It is Martin Rossiter from Gene, the twat. I see you don’t have any problem with him wearing sexy attire?”

“He’s wearing a blazer,” exclaimed Ellis-Bextor incredulously.

“I know,” said Shakespeare. “Put a nice broad pair of paned hose underneath in place of those ridiculous narrow trousers and he wouldn’t look half bad.”